


Things I Cannot Ask (Freely Given)

by OxfordCommasRequired



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Almost Dies, Because what good would a fic be without those?, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Magic Reveal, Swearing & Snogging, as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordCommasRequired/pseuds/OxfordCommasRequired
Summary: “Will there be anything else, Sire?” was what Merlin actually said. His tenuous handle on his emotions stuttered, and his voice came out less detached than he wanted. His eyes were inexorably drawn to Arthur's face. Arthur stared back, an emotion burdened with the weight of a nation passing between them.“Kiss me,” Arthur said.





	Things I Cannot Ask (Freely Given)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. The original idea was super dumb and cute and should probably have taken less than 1000 words, but it wouldn't leave me alone and when I finally gave in and wrote it, it just got bigger and bigger and now it's mutated into this. Isn't that the way of writing, though?
> 
> I have a pretty strong feeling I need to write another chapter to it, a sort of prequel/alternate perspective for Merlin, but I fear its power over me. It might demand to be like 20,000 words and I've got other stuff to write!
> 
> Semi-thoroughly edited, but unbeta'ed. Enjoy :)

Horrified whispers shared in secluded archways, furtive glances followed by heads ducking and steps quickening, the charged air of an entire castle waiting with baited breath; hands clenching on sword hilts as tight-jawed knights in chainmail hunted for alternative answers, papers flying as a king raged against his own helplessness, everything falling into a hush as the physical weight of the threat blanketed the citadel; a solemn-faced servant meticulously arming his prince though they both knew the steel would be useless, the strain of the prince's muscles and the stubborn glint of valor in his eyes as he prepared for certain death – a typical Tuesday in Camelot.

But for one thing.

The air between the prince and his servant, usually flippant and teasing or sincere and unguarded, was strained and distant. Not a word was spoken – no fondly exasperated admonitions or trusting confessions. The only sound was the rattle and chink of armor as each piece was lifted, situated, and buckled with practiced ease.

The prince's eyes followed his servant as he strapped one vambrace down and retrieved the other from the table. The servant continued to avoid his gaze, holding out a hand for the prince's sword arm, which he gave on reflex. The servant secured the second vambrace, each movement sure and decisive, efficient and methodical.

He returned to the table, empty now but for a glinting sword and a carefully folded red cloth. With his back to him, the prince could not see as the servant hesitated, fingers brushing over the fabric with care and tenderness. When his hand trembled, he clenched it, closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. He reached over the material for the steel.

He presented the sword to the prince with his eyes still downcast. The prince swallowed back some emotion as he took the sword, but he made no move to attach the sheath to his belt.

This time, the servant's only reaction to the red cloth was a slightly tensed jaw. His grip on it was gentle as he lifted it and let it unfurl. Eyes set firmly on the hasp in his grip, he threw the cape over the prince's shoulders, where it settled with a ripple and a sigh like coming home. He clasped the cloak at his prince's throat, gaze just barely flickering to the pulse of it as the prince breathed unevenly before he dropped his gaze back to the ground.

He stepped back and said, “Finished, Sire.”

There was a silent echo in the room, a ghost of a conversation that should've happened. _Ready, Arthur_ , said in a cheerful, satisfied voice.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

 _It's about time, you idiot. Now let's go. With any luck, the fight won't be over before I get there._ All this in a sarcastic voice that could not quite hide either its trepidation or its fondness as he strode from the room.

 _Prat_ , muttered with an eye roll, before he followed in eager haste.

“Will there be anything else, Sire?” was what Merlin actually said. His tenuous handle on his emotions stuttered, and his voice came out less detached than he wanted. His eyes were inexorably drawn to Arthur's face. Arthur stared back, an emotion burdened with the weight of a nation passing between them.

“Kiss me,” Arthur said.

Merlin's face did not shift in response. He surveyed Arthur for another moment, nodded, and closed the distance between them.

Arthur was still until Merlin's lips met his, but the instant the heat of proximity changed to the pressure of contact, he was a surge of motion. The hand that held Excalibur pressed the sheathed blade flat to Merlin's spine, holding him tight to Arthur. His free hand seized Merlin's jaw, fingers clutching at the back of his neck. In one long stride, he had Merlin trapped against the table as he laid his sword across it and leaned his weight on that hand, while the other ensured their lips never parted.

Merlin struggled to grasp at Arthur, with his hands pinned between them and unyielding armor in the way. He twisted his hands in Arthur's cape and craned forward to improve the angle of their mouths.

Arthur's chest rumbled with approval that hummed on Merlin's mouth. He shivered as he slotted his mouth against Arthur's, his bottom lip caught between the other man's. Their radiating warmths mixed, the heat of shared breaths and locked mouths flushing both their faces. When Arthur pressed closer so that he had to lean back against the table, Merlin used the adjustment to free his hands, one anchoring in Arthur's hair and the other dropping to the table to stabilize him. It fell partially across Arthur's hand, and the prince tangled their fingers without hesitation.

Merlin felt the change the moment he dared to tease his tongue across Arthur's mouth. The prince's desperation ratcheted up, every muscle tensing to pull Merlin closer. He sucked, hard, on Merlin's lip and just barely nipped at it.

Then he pulled away.

They said nothing. Arthur's eyes tracked every minute shift in Merlin: the swell and release of air in his chest, the flex and yield of the muscles in his throat, the rosiness suffused over his cheeks, the shine of wet over lips reddened and inflamed by their kiss, the perceptive flash of midnight blue eyes that watched him in return.

Merlin swallowed. Arthur's heart thrummed like a plucked harp string.

He gently extracted his fingers from Merlin's and reached onto the table behind him for Excalibur. Sword in hand, he indulged in one last moment of eye contact before he spun around and left.

 

*

 

The castle was empty for the rest of the day. The air was so thick and charged that it seemed as if lighting a match would set the whole citadel aflame. In a few strategic places throughout the castle, including the prince's vacant chambers, the echoes of a crowd enthralled by _something_ taunted those who could not see.

First, there was applause. It was tentative, as though the crowd was not entirely sure applause was appropriate.

Unintelligible shouts and metallic clangs spattered the next few minutes.

Suddenly, a roar of approval, complete with furious clapping and shrill whistling, boomed through the prince's chambers.

Just as abruptly, it cut off in a gasp, one so horrified and absolute the air seemed sucked from the room.

The prince's chambers resonated with indecipherable noises for a few minutes, the sounds enhanced as though even the stone was begging for something decisive.

And then screams ripped through the air. A muddled clamor followed, sounds with hollow echoes like things hitting the ground, and not getting back up.

A hush fell.

 

*

 

Perhaps other sounds reached the prince's chambers, but the next that mattered was the metallic snap of the lock turning and the door falling open with a sigh. This coincided with the grumble and clatter of the resident returning.

“Gaius, please, I'm alright. I just need some well-deserved rest, and I'll be fine,” Arthur said, voice a rough mix of commanding, pleading, and exhausted. He stumbled to the table and began shedding armor.

“Sire,” Gaius said with a note of worry.

Pausing in wiggling out of his hauberk, which had him wincing anyway, Arthur turned to the old physician. “If you're still concerned in the morning, I promise I will have no objections. Is there any threat of me dying overnight?”

Gaius shuffled his feet and hesitated. “I don't believe so,” he admitted eventually.

“Okay then.” Arthur waved a hand with impatience. Gaius pressed his lips together, but bowed and turned to go.

When he had a hand on the door, Arthur called, “Gaius?” The physician turned. Arthur paused before he said, “Tell Merlin I won't require him until tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sire.”

The door closed, and Arthur was alone. His shoulders sagged, hands digging into the table to support his weight. He stood there for a long minute before he sighed and winced his way out of the rest of his armor.

He managed to kick off his boots and toss his chainmail to the side, but the heavy padding beneath was beyond his limited energy. He flopped onto his bed, covered in dirt and blood and whole body radiating with the heat of battle-soreness, muscles unable to resist relaxing into the softness.

He was asleep in seconds.

 

*

 

Arthur might not have immediately remembered yesterday, he'd slept so deeply, but the soft sounds that roused him brought it all back. He slowly fell to consciousness to the uncharacteristically muffled clink of a tray being set on the table, footsteps crossing the room, and the quiet hiss of a match being lit.

 _Merlin_ , he thought. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut against the emotions that battled to escape, especially when he realized his manservant was trying to be quiet to let him sleep.

He entertained the thought of pretending to sleep a while longer, but that kind of cowardice burned bitter in his throat. So after taking one last moment to commit the way things were to memory, Arthur opened his eyes to face the day.

He rolled into a sitting position, groaning at the protest of his aching muscles.

“Arthur?” The quiet query came with Merlin's dark hair peeking around the edge of his bed hangings. “Good morning.” Even this was hushed. Arthur almost wished he'd given his usual obnoxious greeting, if only because it might be the last he'd hear.

“Morning,” he grunted back. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye.

“How do you feel?”

Arthur took stock. “Like I battled a dragon, but not bad, really.”

Merlin's lips twitched. “I've got breakfast,” he said with half a grin. Then he ducked out of the hangings.

Arthur realized he was ravenous, so he forced his protesting body to stand and shuffle to the table, where a spread that could've _fed_ a dragon was laid out. He tucked in gratefully, though the food was secondary on his mind to the movements of Merlin in the background.

Despite Arthur's copious complaints, Merlin really wasn't that bad a manservant. Granted, any normal manservant would probably faint at the clutter Merlin failed to pick up, he was late or tripped over his own feet at least three times a day, and sometimes Arthur wondered if anyone had even really explained to the idiot what his duties _were_ , but when it really mattered, he never let Arthur down. He kept Arthur's armor in perfect form at all times, he sat through even the most interminable councils with him (occasionally nudging him under the guise of filling his goblet when he dozed off), and he did a remarkable job of making sure Arthur ate and slept a reasonable amount. Arthur's meals and baths were always the right temperature, and often appeared before he realized he wanted them. Merlin was exceptional at reading him. He had a unique ability to pull Arthur out of even the deepest sulk, and had no qualms about making himself the target to do so. For all his insolence and cheek, he never gave any indication of his disregard for Arthur's station when they were around foreign nobility or unfamiliar servants. In fact, Arthur rather thought that in those times he showed a respect so deep that the people around him adopted it without realizing it. And when they were alone or among friends, his impertinence was rarely without a point. It was usually his (not so) subtle way of letting Arthur know he was doing something Merlin disapproved of.

And then there were the things Merlin did which were far beyond the requirements of his station. There were few things Merlin didn't have an opinion on, and most of those only because he hadn't made Arthur explain them in detail yet. He wasn't shy in sharing his thoughts, which might've irritated anyone else, but which Arthur felt gave him a much more balanced perspective on things. (That wasn't to say that he didn't find it irritating. He did.) When Arthur was contemplating a particularly difficult choice and he spoke to Merlin about it, Merlin had a way of giving advice then telling Arthur it was up to him, in a tone of such _conviction_ that he would do the right thing, that even the most impossible choices became black and white. And once the choice was made, Merlin never hesitated to follow him, even if he disagreed with it, even if it was likely to get him killed. He had loyalty and courage which rivaled that of any of Arthur's knights, a steadfast belief in him that made Arthur hope he never let Merlin down.

As he watched Merlin inspect the damage to his hauberk with a practiced eye, Arthur realized that maybe Merlin was a terrible manservant in the traditional sense, but he was exactly the kind of manservant Arthur needed. Merlin huffed at the state of Arthur's chainmail and laid it on the pile of armor that needed repair. Arthur gulped back the rush of affection and gratefulness, and gulped harder when guilt swelled up instead.

“Arthur?” Merlin asked quietly. His eyes were studying Arthur's face, but kept flickering to the ground uncertainly. It reminded Arthur of the way he'd been yesterday – the way, he realized, a normal manservant might have been. He hated it even more.

“Yes, Merlin?” he drawled back, in his most obnoxious tone, hoping it would draw out irritation which would dispel the hesitant Merlin.

Merlin didn't even roll his eyes. “You should bathe,” he said, inclining his head toward the tub Arthur had overlooked.

Now that he'd slept and eaten, Arthur had to admit a bath was extremely high on his list of desires. (And the item above it... well, he wasn't going to manage that one.) He levered himself from his seat, grunting at the burn of his tightly coiled muscles.

“You slept in this?” Merlin asked, stepping close and pulling at the ties on the heavily padded gambeson. “You really must have been exhausted.” His voice was sympathetic, but distant, and Arthur was torn between too many emotions to respond right away. His first, most instinctive response was his heart and breath quickening at Merlin's proximity, at the heat radiating from him as he _undressed Arthur_ , made all the more potent by the memory of the last time they'd been so close that he could see the flutter of Merlin's eyelashes. His desire was tempered by the calm indifference in Merlin's movements and how much that drove home the stake of shame in Arthur's gut. The neutrality in his voice hurt too, though on a more selfish level, because it indicated Merlin was not nearly as affected as he was.

“Yes, well, that's what happens when you singlehandedly defeat a threat to your kingdom, Merlin,” Arthur said eventually, and then tacked on, “not that you would know.”

Merlin exhaled a little heavily as he tugged at Arthur's tunic. Arthur lifted his arms obligingly, even if it made them shriek in protest, and Merlin pulled the shirt over his head. It was when the red fabric was completely covering his face that Arthur suddenly realized _yes, actually, he would know, you idiot_. He barely had time to cover his penitent grimace before Merlin had the tunic off his head.

When Merlin turned his back to the bare-chested Arthur to add it to the laundry while Arthur finished shedding his clothes, Arthur was relieved that this had become their routine early on, that he'd never gotten so accustomed to servants that he didn't think it strange when they unlaced his breeches. He certainly would've thought it strange now – well, maybe _strang_ _e_ wasn't quite right.

As he sank into perfectly heated water to the sight of Merlin bending over to pick up the laundry basket, Arthur reflected that no, _strange_ definitely wasn't the word. But it would have splintered his already tenuous resolve.

With that sobering thought, Arthur forcibly blanked his mind and set to scrubbing away the blood flaking off his skin and crusted in his hair.

Surrounded by the comforting warmth Merlin brought – literally – into his life, Arthur knew he could put off the conversation no longer.

Well, no longer than it took to dress.

His body was screaming less now that it had been loosened by the hot water. Arthur quickly donned the clothes Merlin had set aside – a pair of his softest breeches and a loose blue tunic, perfect for a day of aching stiffness.

He sucked in a breath to call Merlin's name, to begin the end, and – held it. He watched Merlin for one more selfish moment as he tidied Arthur's wardrobe. Then he expelled the breath and tried again.

“Merlin,” he called, voice cracking rather humiliatingly.

Merlin stiffened and half-turned, his face a carefully guarded mask, almost as terrible as yesterday's. “Yeah?” he said, flat.

Arthur's carefully worded speech scrambled in his head, and he could _feel_ how quickly a permanent rift would form if he said the wrong thing. So he started with the simplest piece, if not the easiest. “I'm sorry.”

Merlin's mask cracked with his surprise. He blinked. Then his brow furrowed. “For what, exactly?”

“I shouldn't have done that yesterday.”

Merlin's eyebrows rose, but his mouth curled down a little. “You're going to have to be a little more specific.” There was a dryness in his voice, just a hint of their usual banter, and it made Arthur hope.

“Kissed you, I mean.” Merlin's mask instantly reformed, like steel being quenched, cooled permanently into a deadly blade. Arthur's heart lurched. “Er – no, sorry, ordered _you_ to kiss _me_ , I mean.” _Shit, shit, shit_. This was why he thought up the speeches ahead of time.

“Ordered?” His face and voice were still carefully blank, but he turned from the wardrobe to face Arthur fully.

Arthur nodded, grateful Merlin had caught on to the key word. When Merlin made no other reaction, Arthur wet his lips nervously. It was supposed to come toward the end of the speech, but it was all he could remember: “As a member of nobility, and especially as a prince, I have a responsibility to my people – as a whole, but to each individually as well. That includes you – especially you, since you're a part of my household. And though, in practice, it's hardly unheard of, there are things... there are things that a man in my position, a man of honor, should not do. Things I cannot ask of you.”

Merlin's face slowly flickered with comprehension. “So this... this is about abusing your authority over me to take advantage of me? _That's_ what you're apologizing for?”

Swallowing heavily, Arthur nodded. It was a little finer of a point on it than he'd wanted, but if he was going to own up to it, he wasn't going to mitigate the severity of it.

Merlin's clinical mask shattered. He gave Arthur an incredulous look and snorted like a particularly sardonic pig. “You are such a _prat_ ,” he declared with a bark of harsh laughter.

Arthur scowled. “Merlin, I'm serious.”

Merlin sighed, chuckle abating. “I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “That's what's so ridiculous.” Arthur crossed his arms, cheeks heating with some combination of confused embarrassment and anger. Merlin, luckily, read Arthur just as well as ever. “Arthur, I've been your servant for quite some time now. I think I can tell the difference between a princely order and...” he hesitated and waved a hand, cheeks a little pink, “anything else.”

Arthur shifted. “I – yes, I suppose. But that's not really the point. You shouldn't _have_ to be able to tell the difference, because I should never have put you in that position in the first place.”

“You mean possibly defying an order from the Prince of Camelot?” Merlin clarified, with the air of proving a point. He crossed his arms too and leaned back against the wardrobe. If Arthur wasn't mistaken, a smirk was even flitting over his lips.

Arthur nodded.

Merlin cocked one eyebrow. “Arthur, have I ever had any reservations about telling you where you can shove your princely orders?”

Exasperated, Arthur blurted, “Normally, no, but _yes_ , when I'm about to die! When my life is on the line, you have never once defied an order.”

“That's because you don't give me pointless orders when your life is on the line!” Merlin countered in much the same tone. He was evidently still upset about _something_ , despite dropping his distant facade, because he continued with gaining steam, “Let me tell you, if you ever had the audacity to tell me to muck out the stables when you were going to confront whatever mad threat Camelot was facing that day, I would go down to the stables, take a shovel full of horse shit, and shove it in your face, just so that you were crystal clear on what I thought of your priorities.” He advanced then, arms stiff at his sides and eyes glinting. “It's one thing to take out your daily frustrations on me, and I'm normally glad, or at least willing, to take the brunt of that. It's another thing entirely to treat me like – like any other manservant. You can't expect me to sit idly by, twiddling my thumbs, while you risk your fucking life. _I won't do it_.”

 _Ah_. Apparently Arthur was an oblivious moron, but that was a big enough clue even for him. Before he could string together a coherent argument that maintained some sense of dignity, Merlin jerked his head to the side and said, in a much softer voice, “Besides... I didn't think of it as an order.”

Silence fell, and, for the first time in days, it wasn't marred by false distance or barely suppressed resentment. They breathed air of trust and vulnerability, of being laid bare. Arthur, even though he had grown up on bottled emotion and calm facades, found himself savoring it. It made him think that, just maybe, he hadn't permanently ruined their easy camaraderie.

“Merlin... I've never thought of you as any ordinary manservant. God knows you can't clean worth a damn,” he couldn't help adding. Merlin shook his head, but a smile twitched at his lips. Sore and a little shaky, Arthur relinquished his place on the floor and paced over to lean his weight against the table. He rubbed his hand over his chin, cold ring sliding across his lip. “But you also didn't sign up to risk your life. You never took a knight's oath, so you've no obligation to me or to Camelot in that respect.”

“You've never had a problem with it before!” Merlin exclaimed, confused and frustrated.

Arthur closed his eyes. “Yes, I have. I've just been – it's time I treated you with realistic expectations. And that doesn't include facing certain death for my kingdom.”

“What made this time so different?” he asked. He studied Arthur curiously, which meant he saw the way the prince's shoulders tensed and his hand tightened on the edge of the table.

“Nothing.”

“Arthur.”

“ _Nothing_ , Merlin.”

“ _Bullshit_ , Arthur. Don't insult my intelligence – at least not anymore than you normally do.”

Arthur let out a disbelieving laugh. “Right, because you've never done that to me – kept secrets without even really trying to hide, depended on me being oblivious to keep me from asking questions.”

Merlin ducked his head, but Arthur could see the sudden torture in his expression. “I never–” He swallowed, closing his eyes. “I never wanted to.”

Arthur ran a hand over his face. “I know.” He wasn't quite ready to say the words _it's okay_ , because it _wasn't_ , but the reality was that he'd already forgiven Merlin. “That was the difference,” he admitted, after the guilt in Merlin's silence became too much. Merlin looked up, only half distracted from his internal turmoil. “This was the first time I've faced a sorcerer since...” He gestured at Merlin.

Merlin's eyes went wide.

Arthur looked down and followed the wood grain in the table with his eyes. “Hearing everything she said... It wasn't like she was just insane. Her grievances were legitimate. My father murdered her whole family, and why? Because they tried to protect her ten-year-old brother from being executed, just for having magic. He was a _child_.” His voice trembled, and he forced himself to suck in a breath, hold it, and expel it. He could feel Merlin's patient gaze on him and the question it held. “I've always...” He hesitated, fists clenching. There was something about admitting this aloud that made it so much worse. “I've always thought, even if I couldn't explain why, that my father's view on magic is wrong. Based in truth, maybe, from the little I knew, but I always felt that the law, and the way he enforced it, had twisted it far beyond justice. It has taken far too long for me to reconcile the strong, fair king I admire with the irrational revenge he exacts on sorcerers, and I will always be responsible for that. The blood that spilled because I didn't do anything before is on my hands.”

Merlin blanched and opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur held up a hand. He met Merlin's eyes steadily, and Merlin closed his mouth without saying anything.

“I've always thought it was wrong,” Arthur repeated, “but this was different. Seeing this woman, hearing her talk about how much her family loved each other, how terrified they were every day... how her brother was reckless with magic because he was always helping people, how he couldn't cross a room without tripping over his own feet...” He looked at Merlin with a pointedly raised eyebrow, though the somber twist of his mouth remained. Merlin ignored his poor attempt at taunting. “She looked a little like you, you know, with the dark hair and all.” _And all_ really meant _striking blue eyes and disarming smile_ , but Arthur wasn't about to say _that_ out loud.

Merlin, though, seemed to hear what he couldn't say, as always. Arthur had expected a taunting smirk, but instead, Merlin searched his face seriously. Whatever he found there made something in him settle. Arthur couldn't have pointed to a physical cue for his restless energy, but he felt the tremor lose its hold on Merlin's body, watched some of the lines on his face smooth out. He saw Merlin relax, and he suddenly had to wonder if the idiot hadn't realized how Arthur felt about him.

Holding that disturbing thought at bay, Arthur plowed on. “I couldn't _not_ imagine it being you. If your mother was killed unjustly, I would expect you to – I would _want_ you to strike back, with any power at your disposal, including magic. Hell, I would help you. And if – if someone killed _you_ for using magic to save a stranger's life, I wouldn't rest until their head was on a spike.” His voice sounded wrecked, but he couldn't temper it. If Merlin died, the fury he would unleash on whoever caused it would barely be noteworthy compared to the grief that would drown him.

Merlin's voice, when he spoke, was hardly better. “And I would do the same for you. I'd prefer if we just kept you alive, though, and facing crazy witches without any magical protection is a really good way to get yourself killed.”

A day ago, Arthur would have scoffed and said _I can take care of one measly witch_ , even if a tiny part of him was worried. After yesterday, he couldn't summon the bravado. “I don't think she was crazy,” he said quietly.

Merlin's mouth fell open. “You did hear the whole _I will raze Camelot to the ground and use your corpses as undead minions_ bit, yeah?”

Arthur grimaced. “Okay, yeah, she was insane. Driven mad by her grief.”

“That doesn't–”

“I'm not condoning her actions; I'm just saying I can understand where that anger came from. If not for my father's actions, everyone she loved would still be alive. She would still be as sane as anyone else.”

Merlin watched him for a minute. “It's admirable that you can put yourself in her shoes, even though she was threatening your life and your kingdom. And I'm grateful that you're considering magic so objectively. But I'm still not going to let you shut me out when you do something dim like try to defeat magic with a sword. In case you haven't noticed, protecting you from the inordinate number of plots to kill you is kind of what I do.” This said with a half-smile that made Arthur feel slightly left out, as if Merlin was sharing a joke with someone not there.

“Merlin,” Arthur began, then faltered. He shook his head. “I can't ask you to protect a throne that has so failed your kind, that has done its best to have those with magic eradicated.”

Merlin's lips thinned to a line that made Arthur automatically bristle, that he associated with cold baths and angry silences, though this time it didn't seem like it was directed at him. “You can't shoulder the guilt for everything the king has done.”

“Actually, that's my job, as the next king,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin sighed. “No, it isn't. It's your job to take the throne, when it's your time, and move forward according to what you think is right. You will have to accept the consequences of what he's done when it affects your reign, but you do not have to feel personally responsible for every time Uther made a mistake, Arthur. You can't. It'll bury you.”

The truth in Merlin's words washed over Arthur, settling into his core the way a fighting pattern would settle into muscle memory – so ingrained once learned that it seemed he'd always known it, so innate that conscious thought was omitted. He ran a hand through his hair. “What would you have had me do then? With the witch?”

Merlin didn't answer right away. He studied Arthur with curiosity in his eyes. “If you were king, what would you have done?” he responded eventually. Arthur blinked. The answer sprang to mind, as if he'd already thought about it, though he couldn't remember doing so. Before Arthur could speak, Merlin smiled knowingly and nodded. “That's what I'd have told you to do. And if nothing you did could bring her back from the edge, I'd have kept your sorry arse from getting blown to pieces.”

Again Arthur found himself incapable of dredging up any offended arrogance. His turmoil was too great. “Even so, Merlin, I can't ask for your loyalty in this. I won't ask you to choose me over magic.”

Merlin huffed. He took a few steps closer, stopping just out of arms' reach, which made Arthur belatedly realize how much distance they had kept between them so far. He was grateful they had, because every step Merlin took multiplied the strength of his draw. Arthur leant his weight back a little, purposefully trapping his hands against the table. Merlin locked their gazes, and Arthur felt his words like they were being carved into his bones. “Arthur, you earned my loyalty, in this and in everything else, a long time ago. I chose you, and I choose you, because I believe in the kingdom you will build.” Merlin's eyes flashed with an ardor Arthur normally only saw on the battlefield, twilight blue glittering with a hint of gold. “Anyone who threatens that, who threatens you, stands against everything I believe in. I don't care what their weapon is. Sword or spell, I will defeat them.” Arthur shook his head in disbelief, so Merlin went on, voice gaining a touch of its usual dryness. “I think my track record there pretty well proves my allegiance, and if that wasn't obvious enough, I feel like the whole,” face pink, he gestured between himself and Arthur, then flailed his hand at the table Arthur was leaning on, “was pretty hard to miss.”

Arthur barely kept himself from lurching away from the table, which wouldn't have accomplished anything except placing him inches from Merlin, a temptation too great. His face flushed.

“I'm still sorry about that,” he mumbled, shifting his weight.

“I'm not,” Merlin said easily. “But if you're really so worried about ordering me to do things I don't want to, you could start with never ordering me not to interfere again.” He grinned, playful tone disguising the stubborn challenge Arthur knew was there.

He sighed. “Not like it does any good anyway. You'd just ignore me if it came down to it.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. Arthur replayed his words in his head. “Oh.” He shook his head, struggling to keep a smile from his face. “Alright, Merlin, you've made your point. How about this: I promise to word all orders regarding life-threatening situations as highly encouraged requests, and you promise to actually consider the requests before recklessly ignoring them.”

“Sounds fair.” Merlin nodded agreeably. Then a wicked grin spread across his mouth. “And in return, I promise that, if you ever tell me to kiss you and I don't want to, I'll hit you and turn your hair and clothes purple, as long as you promise to shelve your enormous ego and over-active sense of honor and remember I don't actually care about your station, yeah?” As he spoke, he meandered closer, arms clasped behind his back, the perfect picture of casualness but for the fierce _want_ in his eyes.

Arthur released his hands from their prison against the table just in time to grab Merlin by the hips and pull their bodies flush. Merlin, with his perpetual clumsiness, should have tripped or lost his balance, but he just slid forward obligingly, arms resting on Arthur's chest. “I think we can skip the hair sabotaging, don't you?” Arthur murmured into the breath between them. He leaned forward and brushed his lips softly against Merlin's before pulling back.

Merlin smirked. “I don't know, I think you might be dashing with purple hair,” he said, fingers ruffling a bit of said currently golden hair. Arthur narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Merlin dipped in and kissed him, sure and warm and gentle. He might have let it go then, but Merlin, being Merlin, couldn't help himself and pushed again. “I'm thinking lilac,” he said.

Arthur growled and wrapped his arms tight around Merlin's back so he couldn't escape. He surged forward and slammed their mouths together, a show of dominance that sort of failed when Merlin just capitulated with a pleased hum. He nipped at Merlin's bottom lip as he pulled away. “Leave my hair alone,” he said warningly.

Merlin, whose left hand was very thoroughly entwined in his hair, released his grip and pulled the hand back innocently.

Arthur groaned. “I hate you,” he said. Even as he said it, he could hear the silent echo of what he truly meant, could feel the way the letters would tumble off his tongue. Judging by the keen spark in Merlin's eyes, he heard it too.

Merlin grinned that grin that should've been dopey, but somehow captivated Arthur. (The moment he first realized that was the moment Arthur knew he was doomed.) He shifted his weight backward, and Arthur had tightened his grip and pulled him closer before he even knew what he was doing. When Merlin raised his eyebrows and glanced down, Arthur realized that was what he'd wanted. Still smiling, Merlin leant forward, solidifying the solid press of their bodies from thighs to chests, the shared heat electrifying. Then he drummed the fingers of his right hand against Arthur's heart, where they'd come to rest. “No, you don't,” he whispered. They both heard what he didn't say. _And I you._

Arthur skimmed one hand up Merlin's back and down his arm until he reached the hand Merlin still had pressed to his heart. He tangled their fingers. Merlin's free hand gravitated back to Arthur's hair, palm curved against his neck. Their lips connected again.

It was irresistible, overwhelming, but also instinctive, effortless, like the things they were meant to do.

Arthur thought of rallying knights in impossible conditions, of the rush of swarming into battle with them at his back, of adrenalin and fear and confidence, of his duty to the people of Camelot, of feeling the weight on his shoulders and holding his chin up, knowing he was born to bear it.

Merlin thought of magic, of the warmth that blossomed from playful, beautiful enchantments, of the intoxicating pulse of his blood when he tested his limits, of facing far more experienced sorcerers and knowing he should be terrified, but only able to feel determined and dauntless, of standing with Arthur and feeling like he finally understood the word _destiny._

 


End file.
